


Swimming

by tielan



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Gen, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-02-21
Updated: 2006-02-21
Packaged: 2017-10-10 07:36:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/97251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tielan/pseuds/tielan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ronon finds it vaguely amusing that it's not his state of undress that bothers her, so much as his terse answers - as if naked men are as common as the sunshine puffballs that grow in the lane, but a man who doesn't answer her questions is a unique creature.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swimming

The salt water is cool over his skin and stings in his still-healing wounds.

Ronon doesn’t care.

This is the first swim he’s had in years where he didn’t have one eye on the sky, waiting for the Wraith to come for him. There’s no urgency, no need to have his weapons at hand, no tension as he lazily strokes his way through the lapping waves that wash up on Atlantis’ piers.

Beyond him, the city gleams in twilight, and the lights from its windows are splintering reflections on the water’s surface. He floats in an ocean of quiet, away from the chatter and hum of the people of this city, and lets his thoughts seep into the dark water.

Voices rouse him from his watery drift - high-pitched voices, bright and laughing, carrying in the night with none of the silence to which he is accustomed.

“Well, hello,” someone says as he treads water. There’s laughter in her voice, and a subtle knowingness that doesn’t quite grate on his nerves. “I think our usual spot is already taken.”

The figures of eight or nine people can be seen on the pier - all women, all carrying towels. Further along the pier, other figures are picking their way down through the darkness, a convoy of shadows. Of the ones close enough for him to see, only one of them looks familiar - a military sergeant he’s seen around the base. The others are all strangers.

It seems he’s not the only one who came to find peace in the water. And it’s their city. He might not feel comfortable in it yet, but they were willing to take him in. Ronon appreciates that.

“I’ll leave,” he says, swimming over to the pier and hauling himself out of the sea.

His dreadlocks drip water over his bare shoulders as he stands, and the murmurs and laughter bubble up like underground springs as they realise he’s mother-naked, with only the rivulets of seawater as covering. They eye him with a mixture of amusement and approval, some more openly than others. It brings a smirk to his lips as they part to let him through to his clothing, his weapons, and his towel.

Pride - or ego - slings the towel around his neck rather than his waist, and he crouches down to take up his clothing in one hand and his weapons in the other.

A new pair of boots pauses a few feet away.

He rises to face Teyla Emmagen.

“Ronon.”

“Teyla.”

She gives his naked form a once-over glance but there is none of the coyness of the other women when she speaks. “We interrupted your swimming?”

“I was finished.” _Nearly._ He glances around and notes that only one of the women is undressing. The others eye him until he meets their gazes; then they titter and look away. “Regular party?”

“A time to relax,” Teyla says, setting down her bag. Her eyes narrow with wry amusement. “Time away from the men.”

Someone giggles in the night, and the echoes reflect back across the water.

Ronon flashes a brief, half-grin at her frank words and the implications of the laughter. “Doesn’t matter. I’m going.”

He walks away, aware he’s naked as the day he was birthed in a crowd of women, but also aware that the unspoken rule of these people is ‘look, but don’t touch without an invitation’.

Frankly, Ronon doesn’t mind if they look.

Then he turns the first corner and comes face-to-face with Dr. Weir.

“Ronon.” She’s startled by his sudden appearance - and possibly the fact that he’s not wearing any clothing.

“Dr. Weir.” He’s just startled - and wary of this woman who is the expedition leader.

She’s obviously part of the group going swimming - a towel is slung over one shoulder, and her earpiece is nowhere in sight.

Her eyes sweep over him, more personally than Teyla’s brisk summation, but without the gleeful interest of the other women. In fact, her only concession to his nudity is what might be the faintest flush across her cheeks.

“I guess we interrupted your swim?”

“Yep.”

“And you’re going back to the city?”

There are many answers to that question. Going back as compared to staying? Teyla made it clear that this was a women-only gathering. Going back to the city as compared to going where? He has nowhere else to go.

He shrugs, indicating that the answer is obvious enough, and she pauses, looking for something else to say.

Ronon finds it vaguely amusing that it’s not his state of undress that bothers her, so much as his terse answers - as if naked men are as common as the sunshine puffballs that grow in the lane, but a man who doesn’t answer her questions is a unique creature.

“Well,” she says, in the same too-bright tone she’s used on him before. “I should let you get dressed.”

He shrugs again, indicating it’s all the same to him if he stands here naked all night while she gets a leisurely eyeful. “Have fun.”

As he stands aside to let her pass, Ronon smirks. He can’t help it. Dr. Weir catches the edge of his expression, and the faint flush on her cheeks becomes a vivid tide of red. Maybe it’s a small, petty thing to take pleasure in the fact that he discomfits her, but he doesn’t quite know how to deal with her, either.

Sheppard is easy - another fighter in the war against the Wraith. Teyla is similarly simple - both as a fighter and as a native to this galaxy. Ronon’s still not sure how he’s going to deal with Dr. McKay - the man looks like he can be a pain and a pest. But Sheppard and Teyla manage it, so Ronon’s going to do the same.

Dr. Weir, on the other hand, is a different type of woman entirely - a non-combatant and an authority.

Ronon tilts his head as she turns the corner. A non-combatant authority with nice legs and a nice butt. A bit too skinny though.

He lets out a huff of breath as the sounds of her boots drifts over to where the laughter of women bathing can be heard over the breeze.

_Time to get dressed._ Not that he couldn’t walk all the way into Atlantis like this. It might be fun to see their jaws drop again.

Still, Sheppard told him to stop trying to get a rise out of the Atlanteans. Apparently it was funny at the start, but not so much after a week. With a sigh, Ronon dumps his clothing, dries himself off and clothes himself in leathers and vest.

He’ll go swimming another time.


End file.
